


A Face That Fits

by Cerberusia



Category: Callan (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21834034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: Meres got back from Zurich a week later, with Bristac in tow.Callan wasn't entirely surprised when Meres popped round that evening, to a house whose address he shouldn't know.
Relationships: David Callan/Toby Meres
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Face That Fits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firestorm717](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/gifts).



Meres got back from Zurich a week later, with Bristac in tow. Bristac was still in one piece, as Callan had ordered. He was also terrified out of his wits and moved like a man badly bruised beneath his clothes. Callan hadn't expected anything less; he'd told Meres he didn't care what had to be done to retrieve Bristac, and he'd meant it.

Meres looked as urbane and unruffled as ever, and presented his prize to Callan with the air of a cat delivering a half-dead mouse. Once Bristac had been left to Snell's untender mercies, Meres gave his report scarcely able to repress an indolent sprawl that spoke of violence sated.

Callan wasn't entirely surprised when Meres popped round that evening, to a house whose address he shouldn't know.

He could have shut the door in his face. But Meres would only have knocked a smart regimental tattoo on the door until Callan was too irritated to leave it. He could even have ordered Meres to go away, and he would have had to obey, furious and silent. Instead, he motioned him in without a word, and in the interests of collegiality, poured him a measure of Scotch. He didn't even check him for weapons, though less as a gesture of good will and more because he could tell from the fit of his jacket that he wasn't carrying a gun.

"Generous in victory, I see." Meres took the Scotch, but his eyes were on Callan.

"Tough job, wasn't it? Though it looks like you enjoyed yourself."

"Tracking him down proved to be an unedifying mixture of tedium and stress. But there were certain _compensations_ once I found him." That meant Meres had pulled his usual thuggery, and without Fitzmaurice to keep him in check. Still, he'd brought Bristac back alive, as ordered.

"Did they not let you belt people in Washington?" Callan poured another measure into his own glass.

"Not often enough, and usually not very hard, either. A tremendous disappointment after what I'd heard about the ubiquity of guns over there."

"So you came back so you could hit people over the head again, is that it?" It would be depressingly in-character for Meres.

"And other places." Meres' gaze was briefly directed into the middle distance, as if mistily reminiscing. "I must say, your taste in Scotch has improved dramatically since I last dropped in on you." He was ostentatiously looking around the flat, managing to convey both that he was impressed with Callan having moved up in the world, and that he disapproved of Callan's choice in decor. "A new address, too. Perks of Hunter's wages?"

In fact, contingent upon him becoming Hunter had been for him to move living space. Callan's interest in housing mainly related to whether it had enough room for his belongings and if the doorchain was strong enough; but he did not miss his Bayswater flat, barely a step up from his previous cold-water tenement.

"Why are you here, Toby?"

"That's better. Is that accent you've adopted as Hunter deliberate, or just an automatic response to promotion to the officer class?"

Was it Meres' fault, Callan wondered, that everything he said came out so _insinuating_? Or was it just his posh drawl that lent his every word a sarcastic tinge? No, it was Meres himself. It was especially prominent when he was trying to get under somebody's skin.

"Answer the question." He hadn't realised that his accent had changed, because nobody - Lonely, Liz, Cross - had dared tell him. But now he was listening to himself, he sounded like his normal self, with the rough South London edges back in place.

"Well, we haven't seen each other in, what, a year? I thought it might be nice to _catch up_."

No you didn't, Callan thought. We don't do social calls, Toby. We're not friends. We don't even like each other. But he looked at Meres steadily, and thought: but you don't need to be friends for what _you_ want.

"American boys weren't pretty enough for you?" he said at last.

Meres smiled wider. It made his handsome face look exceptionally punchable. The Germans had a word for that, only Callan had forgotten it.

"You think it's your _looks_ I'm after, do you? Believe me, David, you've got _so_ much more to offer." An insult and a compliment in one. Typical bloody Meres.

He didn't have to put up with this. He could throw Meres out: nevermind what they'd done after the Brigadier job after Meres had practically come courting, or on the train to East Germany to pick up the new Hunter, or...Meres had all the self-awareness of a dented shovel, but he should still know not to presume too much on a few fucks nearly two years ago.

He could have justified temptation to himself with his own current lack of sex life, which was true enough. But that was true of plenty of his life thus far. What he really missed was the familiarity of having sex with somebody whose body he already knew, who already knew his body in return. He couldn't claim that Meres was his usual type; nor was he Meres'. But he did know that it would be good, even if he had to gag Meres to keep him from trying to taunt Callan into going harder - because Meres still felt that he had a lot to prove to Callan, and that included in bed.

There was, of course, the small fact that the flat was bugged. But there were a few bugs he'd managed to examine and suborn, and one of them was in the bedroom telephone.

"Lost your nerve?" Meres was still smiling that distinctly feline smirk.

"Oh no, son. No, no. I must say, I don't think much of your seduction technique, just turning up and expecting to be given Scotch, then trying to get me into bed. Does that sort of thing play well in Washington?"

"If I'd known you'd developed delicate sensibilities, I'd have brought flowers," Meres retorted. "And in fact, in Washington I just had to open my mouth - really, David, it's a nation of fetishists of the Queen's English. And you may look sceptical, but let's not pretend you're not the same, in your own way."

Meres, it seemed, _had_ developed a slight measure of self-awareness during his secondment. Callan took a sip of his own Scotch to cover his grimace. Meres was right, unfortunately; probably didn't even know how right he was. Meres, like every camp upper-class degenerate in London, liked getting buggered by a hard man who came from Croydon and sounded it; Callan liked buggering this good-looking representative of blue-blooded cruelty and indolence until he couldn't talk. Hunter - not the last Hunter, nor the one before that, the Colonel - had once called him 'chippy'. Too bloody right, mate. And so would you be, if your life had been shaped by the orders of men who'd all been to the right sort of school.

Callan stepped towards Meres. Meres put down his glass, and waited with a faint smile on his lips and his hands carefully loose at his sides, ready to yield to Callan's embrace or fend off a blow, depending on which way Callan swung.

It was simplest to kiss him, so Callan did. Fisted one hand in his collar, ran the other down his side to check - yes, no gun. Meres' chest vibrated with suppressed laughter. He could well laugh: this was the kind of thoroughness that had kept Callan alive to see forty. Meres would do well to learn it.

It was surprising how quickly you got back into the rhythms of someone's body after you'd not seen them for over than a year. They both remembered how to kiss each other. Callan relaxed into Meres' smooth, familiar technique. Must have gone down a treat with the impressionable girls and boys of Washington. And Toby always did prefer them without the sense to know better.

Mind you, what did that say about Callan?

Meres liked it when Callan got a bit rough with him - all part of the working-man fantasy - but Callan didn't play it up. Meres could get himself excited over the class difference if he liked, but Callan wasn't going to help him by playing a stereotype for a toff's gratification. When he took Meres casually by the throat, it wasn't about Meres at all: it was about Callan himself, and how satisfying it felt to hold the strong tendons of Meres' neck in his hand.

Meres could have revolted at that, or decided to get rough with Callan too, which would have put an end to proceedings; but instead he let himself be guided by Callan's grip. He was still smirking against Callan's mouth, of course, like he'd managed to push Callan into doing something he hadn't meant to do.

Things moved quicker after that, like Callan's show of dominance had really excited Meres. Meres palmed his crotch, and there was something appealingly dirty about his boldness, so Callan broke their kiss and took a good handful of Meres' arse - far rougher than any of his girls would like it - and almost laughed when Meres' eyelashes fluttered in pleasure. Toby was no pussycat, of course, but it gave Callan a thrill to see how nicely he played along. It was the thrill of being wanted, to which everybody was susceptible.

Meres was more than amenable to be steered towards the bedroom and away from the sofa. Callan had thought about doing him right there on the sofa, where he could kick him out more easily when they were done. But he was at an age now where doing it on the sofa didn't appeal so much. And he'd felt quite safe having Meres in his bedroom for a long time now.

Callan had assumed they would undress separately, but instead Meres seemed keen to help him; Callan nearly made a crack about his valeting skills before being caught in another kiss. No doubt this careful unwrapping was what Meres did with his girls, and his boys. Callan, more accustomed to be the one doing the undressing, could vouch for its aphrodisiac effect. Meres paid the same attention to his body as Callan remembered from their previous encounters.

"Sit down," Meres suggested rather than ordered, his hands busy with Callan's belt, but taking the time to fondle him through his trousers, like he was teasing them both by putting off the final reveal. "It'll be easier."

Callan didn't ask _what_ would be easier. He was curious, so he let Meres open his trousers and pull out his cock, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Meres knelt. Callan nearly kneed him in the face in surprise. Meres had taken it up the arse from Callan before, but he'd admitted that that wasn't the usual way round he did it; Callan had naturally assumed that as the active partner, he tended to get sucked off rather than the other way round.

The touch of Meres' tongue on his cock sparked physical desire, of course; but it also provoked a kind of mental satisfaction that almost embarrassed Callan. Meres was such a picture of a toff, with that long aristocratic English face, and here he was on his knees, sucking Callan's cock. Posh, pretty, snobbish Toby, looking up at Callan through his long dark eyelashes like he knew exactly what was going through his head. He probably thought he did.

It seemed churlish not to engage him. Callan wound a hand in Meres' hair. He didn't pull; he just let Meres know he could.

Meres was sucking at the head of his cock now, in practiced motions. His eyes kept flicking up to Callan's face. It was just as good as Callan had expected. He wondered whether Meres expected Callan to demean him or say filthy things. He didn't imagine Meres would enjoy that - Meres preferred to be the man calling somebody _else_ a nasty little queer - but perhaps it would satisfy the fantasy Meres was no doubt constructing in his own head about working men and their propensities.

Meres worked harder, and Callan sighed to feel that warm mouth open around him and let his cock enter the humid cavern proper. Meres concentrated still on the head, rubbing the sensitive frenulum with his tongue to make Callan flinch in pleasure; but he was also working more of Callan's cock into his mouth, deeper and deeper, sucking at more and more of it. He was taking his time in apparent enjoyment that Callan didn't think was faked. Funny, that somebody could enjoy this so much. There were probably women out there who felt the same; but taking pleasure in giving head had always been associated with queers, for Callan.

He wished, for a moment, to be able to do this to Meres - simply for shock value. Meres would be amazed. And then, presumably, he'd like it. But Callan had never done that kind of thing and had no desire to start, no matter what else he might be doing with Meres. Meres had always seemed perfectly content for Callan to take the 'man's part', though Callan had no doubt that if Meres thought there was even the slightest chance of buggering him, he'd be desperate in search of an opening to persuade him.

It was just as good as the oral sex Callan remembered from before Meres went off to Washington. Meres seemed to like especially his testicles, which he played with in his hand. Perhaps he did it because he knew most women didn't think to; or just because he could see that Callan liked it. He still kept looking up at Callan's face as he slowly worked his mouth up and down his cock, and Callan reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, to steady himself.

But he changed his mind halfway through the action and touched Meres' cheek instead, which was still pale despite the obscene act he was performing. When he pressed, Callan could feel the outline of his cockhead in Meres' cheek. Meres' eyes fluttered closed then, and his other hand went between his legs. That was even better: to see Meres touching himself as he sucked Callan off, because having Callan's cock in his mouth aroused him so much that he couldn't help himself.

Callan took Meres by the neck again, not roughly, just to feel the working of his throat. Perhaps Meres took it as encouragement, because he took Callan's cock deeper into his mouth and swallowed around the head. Callan took a harsh breath and squeezed Meres' neck a little tighter in his grip. He was half-convinced that Meres would revolt at any implication that Callan could force him to submit; but Meres clearly enjoyed it. Perhaps he saw it as Callan giving in to baser urges, or revealing his true self. Perhaps he liked the notion that Callan was just as sadistic as him.

He wasn't, of course: not many people were. But he'd read a little of his own file, including Snell's psychological evaluation. He'd never felt any interest in being rough or excessively dominant with women; but he understood the atavistic thrill of causing pain to somebody who'd wronged him, and the satisfaction in taking out years of barely-repressed class resentment on a willing target. It was even worth the inevitable overlap with some of Meres' sordid fantasies.

He eased Meres off his cock and started impatiently on his trousers. Meres returned the favour by unbuttoning Callan's shirt and running his hands up under his vest. It wasn't just to feel him up: Callan didn't miss the way Meres' touch lingered on his scars, especially the two round bullet holes in his chest. Well, he hadn't had those the last time they did this. He shrugged off his shirt and vest impatiently - Meres would only be coy trying to get a look. Then he went back to undressing Meres, with Meres helping this time.

It wasn't embarrassing to see how excited Meres had got while sucking him off, just a touch alien. Callan found the idea of giving a man head curious rather than arousing. He took hold of Meres' hips to pull him close again, but Meres kept him at arm's length, still evidently caught by his bullet scars. Callan let him trace them, impatient. Meres' touch was surprisingly tender.

He was still wondering whether Meres might try to turn the tables, just to see what would happen; but Toby had more sense than that, or just really did prefer to do it the other way round with Callan than he did with his boys, because when Callan pulled him in again he didn't resist. He just let Callan pull him down to the bed. He was always like that with Callan, not too pushy or masterful. No doubt he could tell Callan wouldn't like it.

Once they were in bed together, they could have been on more equal footing. Callan was wary of turning it into an impromptu grappling match, so he established dominance early on by continuing to manhandle Meres. Meres, as usual, had no complaints: if anything, he looked like he found the whole thing quite amusing, with a supercilious air that suggested he was only letting Callan push him around, and might stop him any time if so he chose. Which was technically true: for many years Callan had been able to overpower Meres in a straight physical fight, but it had long been a close-run thing, and at this stage in his life Callan was no longer entirely confident that he could deal with Meres in the same way as he had when he'd put Lonely in hospital and Callan had put Meres in the bed right next to him shortly afterwards.

In response to the unspoken challenge, Callan simply pushed harder. He didn't think of himself as a sadist, despite Snell's opinions; but it was interesting to see how far he could push Meres and have him put up with it. Callan didn't go to bed with the kind of woman who enjoyed being treated roughly or mauled about, so doing it with a masochist had the thrill of novelty. Meres managed to be yielding without being truly submissive. Callan was simply giving him exactly what he wanted.

It was good to fuck Meres again, better than he'd thought it would be when he was used to having only women. It wasn't that he was better or more appealing than a woman - the lack of breasts put him out of the running, for a start - though he was handsome, not that Callan would tell him as much. Meres did not need his ego inflated any further. But no doubt he'd worked out that there was some special quality he possessed that kept Callan willing. He might even think he knew what it was.

So he stayed pliant under Callan, though not passive. He spread his legs eagerly, and was about to try to roll them over until Callan pushed him back down firmly with a hand on his chest; though not without a pang of arousal as he remembered how Meres had ridden him when given the opportunity. That had been sexy, to see him so eager to play receiver. 'Disheveled and desperate' was a good look on Meres.

He knew what Meres would do, and Meres knew what he would do, and they both knew just about how far they could push each other. It was the _knowing_ that made it so good and natural and easy. He remembered the look of concentration on Meres' face when he was penetrated, and he liked seeing it again as he pushed his cock into him for the first time in years. It was as if there hadn't been any hiatus in their assignations: their bodies moved together with the same ease as he remembered.

There were so many things they might say to one another, if they cared for pillow-talk. They might talk, most of all, about what had happened when Callan had been shot, and instead of finishing him off Meres had loomed over his sprawled body, pale-faced and almost teary, saying his name. Meres seemed very pleased to act as if nothing much out of the ordinary had happened - one of them had been injured, nothing unusual in that, sorry I nearly killed you old boy, that's how life goes in this business - and Callan wondered if perhaps he was embarrassed. Maybe as much over the outburst of tender feelings as the fact that he'd missed Callan's heart.

If they talked, Callan might even point out that Meres' aim had been quite clearly, deliberately, _not_ at his heart. But perhaps Meres preferred not to remember that, now he was back trying to threaten Callan's position. Very adept at ignoring things that were detrimental to his self-image, was Meres.

Callan fucked him, instead. He kept Meres where he was, sprawled on Callan's comfortable bed, and pulled his legs up until Meres got the hint and wrapped them around Callan's waist. Callan took hold of his arse, making sure to dig his fingers in hard, which made Meres tense in pleasure, and drove into him again and again. It wasn't careful, it wasn't fast then slow, it wasn't the way you made love to a comparative stranger. It was steady and so deep that every thrust jolted them up the bed and made Meres reach up to hold onto the headboard and gasp and look like he was in pain.

 _That's right, just spread your legs and take it, you're much sweeter this way._ Callan thought about saying something like that, something a bit demeaning, except he couldn't get the words out. He'd fucked the smirk off Toby's smug upper-class face - for now. Sweat rolled down his temple, but he just kept thrusting into Meres, who tossed his head from side to side and kept letting out low, eager moans through his bitten lip, as if he didn't want to admit just how much he was enjoying being had by Callan.

When Callan thrust especially hard or at a different angle or something, Meres' body jerked so he nearly sat up, and Callan had to shove him roughly back down - which he liked, of course. Meres was panting now, and Callan was panting too. Meres' hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, then, when Callan thrust again, blunt nails raked down his back like claws. It felt good - Callan had always liked it when a woman was so excited she lost control of herself and scratched him up a little - and when Meres did it again he arched his back and a hot thrill went through him.

It all came together very quickly, after that. Meres fought beneath him like a cat, their bodies rose and fell together, and all the tension in his belly and at the base of his spine drew tighter and Meres was touching his own cock between their bodies, totally abandoned to pleasure, and Callan buried his face in Meres' pale shoulder and came in shuddering pulses inside him.

It might have been gentlemanly to help Meres get off too; but Meres brought himself off before Callan had to make the offer. The hard trembling of his body felt good: it felt good to make him lose control. The way he clenched around Callan's cock wasn't bad either.

It might also have been gentlemanly to withdraw and let Meres catch his breath and clean himself up. Callan stayed where he was for another minute, feeling both their racing hearts slow, before pulling out and rolling off Meres and onto his back.

"It's terribly inconvenient that you don't smoke," Meres told him mildly.

"Don't expect me to take up the habit."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Meres' voice was bone-dry. Actually, come to think of it...Callan let one arm flop off the bed. Yes, that was it - he patted around the material without looking, and after a protracted moment, he was able to present Meres with his cigarette case.

"Lighter in the drawer. Hang on." He might not smoke, but a cheap lighter was useful for many things.

"I _say_ , David." Meres was back on purring, insinuating form. "You _are_ feeling generous."

"I could _almost_ say it's nice to have you back." Callan rolled over, lighter in hand, and waited until Meres put the cigarette between his lips - held between the index and middle fingers, just as Callan remembered - before flicking the ignition to light it. Meres closed his eyes as Callan held the flame to the end of his Sobranie - Christ, even his cigs were posh. Callan wondered whether he felt vulnerable with somebody else holding up a flame so close to his face. There was a reason offering someone a light was often a prelude to seduction.

Cigarette lit, Meres drew back a little. Callan tossed the lighter onto the nightstand. He hoped not to need it again: Meres shouldn't be staying long enough to want a second cigarette.

They lay in companionable silence, Meres occasionally exhaling a thin plume of smoke. There was an appealing erotic langour to the action, especially as Callan knew that Meres rarely smoked except post-coitally. It would leave his bedroom smelling like cigarettes, of course: he'd have to open the windows as far as their security catches permitted.

He could have done it right away, and the chill air might hasten Meres' departure so Callan could drink Scotch and sleep in peace. He let Meres smoke his cigarette, instead, right down to the filter: as if, having charmed his way back into Callan's bed at last, he were reluctant to leave.


End file.
